


Your Cargo

by onesickmind



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Abduction, Cecil is Mostly Human, Cecil's Voice, Does Cecil almost rape you?, Dubious Consent, F/M, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Janice is hardcore, M/M, Male/Unspecified gender, Mind Control, Other, Pre-Episode: e025 One Year Later, Road Trip!!!, Sexual Content, Wait a second, planet lit by no sun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2758034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onesickmind/pseuds/onesickmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil finds himself in a difficult situation with a surprising companion. This is possibly the most unsettling thing you will ever read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captives

Consciousness. The beginning of every story. And in Night Vale, every story was terrifying.

Cecil woke feeling like he was crammed inside a box far too small for his body, knees pushed tight against his shoulders, arms wedged between his legs, hard walls squashing his body inwards from six sides. Neck, back, shoulders, everything was uncomfortably strained. Something hard was between his teeth; it almost felt like it was attached to an external point and not his head, but he could not move even an inch to try to dislodge it. 

 He strained for a minute, only proving that the walls confining his body could not be moved. It was dark. He considered making some noise, then abandoned the idea. Not until he knew he was safe; clearly he was helpless right now, and he did not know what lurked about that might take advantage of that.

 Memories. How did he get here. The last thing he knew, he was in his studio; the way his mental log of events cut out suggested some sort of mind control had kicked in. Whatever entity had taken control of him would have had his full cooperation until this moment. Indeed, further attempts to shift and gain awareness about his body revealed no evidence of cuts, bruises, or broken bones that would come from a struggle; his empty head had just led his brainless body to whoever had called it, and allowed the sad entity known as "Cecil" to be penned up in this little prison without even the thought of protest.

 He tried to shift some more. He failed. Damn, his body was squeezed tight. He couldn't even take a full breath. He felt no folds or texture of clothes; it seemed he was naked. He was actually glad of that, as every millimeter of clothing would have robbed him of already cruelly insufficient space.

 He was moving. He could feel rocking. Inside a car or truck, perhaps? The space was too tiny for him to simply be stuffed in a trunk. Vibrations that might have been from an engine were in the air. It was very stuffy; when he noticed now hot and close the air was, his heart raced a little.

He explored the object in his mouth with his tongue. Round, steel, about two inches wide, shaped like a tube. Sticking his tongue against the end, he discovered it was hollow. He pushed his tongue into the tube, finding a barricade about an inch inside. He pressed it, and received a mouthful of water.

His heart dropped. Whoever had put him in this position could keep him here for days. 

This time, he did make a noise.

Unarticulated around the watering tube, it was nonetheless loud, and after the first couple strained shouts contained the full power of his radio voice. 

In short order, another man nearby made a similar unarticulated cry, and a woman as well, from another direction. Cecil silenced himself in horror as the moans of other people in the same situation rose up around him. Then he rejoined them, louder than ever, demanding release. 

The rocking motion changed; the feeling of deceleration was unmistakable. The distinctive feeling of an engine cutting off defined the vibrations in the air. 

Cecil howled more, until he heard a rolling door slam and felt his prison get moved. A sharp thud that rattled his body harshly against its tight walls, and he was totally motionless.

Nothing happened. He tried futilely to pull his head back far enough dislodge the tube again, and again failed. His throat put everything into the cry: LET ME GO.

 Creaking noises. Popping noises. He felt a seam in his prison burst loose. The wall above his shoulders lifted away. Light from the bright daytime sky fell over him. A couple more minutes and a few more pops, and the panel in front of him pulled off. The tube fell away from his mouth. Strong hands helped him uncurl and squeeze his body out of the remaining walls, and he sprawled on the ground, looking up with wide eyes at you.

 You stepped back and dropped the hammer, still in the shock that began when you pried off the top of the crate and saw a naked human back inside.

 Cecil looked at you with wide eyes, halfway between readiness to cower and readiness to attack. He tried to rise, but his joints and muscles were all too busy screaming, tingling, and cramping from being confined in that cruelly tiny crate. He sprawled half-sitting, chest heaving, evaluating his captor. He was completely nude; you averted your eyes awkwardly.

 "Are you… okay?" you asked.

 "What are your plans for me?" he demanded in a deep growl. 

 "I'm, uh, just supposed to deliver you."

 "How did you capture me??"

 "I didn't. I was just told to put these crates in the truck and drive to Wind Rush. I didn't even know there was anyone alive in them."

 Cecil groaned, and you noticed he was shivering. Already discomfited by this naked man, you offered him your jacket. Cecil could not roll his shoulders the right way to get it on, and settled for wrapping it around himself. 

 You asked, "Are you okay?"

 "No. I'm not okay. Did you see how I was crammed into that box. Ugh, everything hurts." Your coat started to slip off of him, but he was too busy trying to hold himself up while grimacing in pain to fix it. You knelt and pulled it back over his shoulders. 

 "Are all those crates from Night Vale?" he asked.

 "Yes."

 "All people, squeezed in there like me?"

 "I really don't know, but they're all about the same weight. Here." You took Cecil into your lap, holding him against your body. He winced and hissed as he was repositioned. 

 "You're from Night Vale, too, aren't you? I think I've seen you a few times."

 "Yes. I moved here some time ago. Are you the radio guy?"

 "Yes."

 "You sound like him."

 "Of course I do."

 Cecil stretched and let out a harsh sigh. "Come on, let's get moving. The sooner everyone's home in Night Vale, the better."

 "Look, buddy, I… need to make this delivery."

 "What."

 "I'm being paid a lot of money to do this. I have bills, you know. Also, I heard the last guy who screwed up a delivery got his throat slit."

 "You're… trafficking human beings! People from Night Vale!" Cecil tried to rise violently quickly, and you jumped back, ready for a fight, but Cecil cried out and fell on his shoulder in the sand. He whimpered and softly cursed his stiff body.

 "There are worse professions out there," you said. "And anyway, I didn't know. I'm just going to pretend I never opened that crate."

 Cecil tried to rise and failed. "Where is your solidarity? Your town pride? Have you not been part of Night Vale long enough to become part of us, in blood and soul?? Interloper!!"

 "Come on man, I'm just trying to do my job. Look. Just get back in the box."

 This time, Cecil did manage to get himself up on hands and knees. He grabbed a rock off the ground and threatened you with it. "You're not putting me back in there."

 "I have to deliver you!" you said helplessly. 

 "Please," Cecil said, trying to crawl backwards, then falling over himself and collapsing with a groan again. The rock tumbled from his hand. "Please. You can't put a human being in that. It's cruel. It's small. It hurts."

 You stepped towards him, but hesitated to do something so cruel to a man who was pleading so directly to you for mercy.

 "Okay," you said. "You can ride in the passenger seat."

 "What about everyone else? We have to let them out of those crates."

 "Then they won't fit in the truck." Indeed, the crates were packed solid from wall to ceiling.

 Cecil groaned deeply. "I don't like it at all," he said. He hesitated and looked at his broken crate. "It isn't fair… but… all right. Let's go."

 "Here," you knelt in front of him and said apologetically, "So you don't try to escape." You bound his hands together with some tie-down cord. After helping him into the cab, you tied his feet together, too. Your captive panted at you with huge eyes that brimmed with frightened tears. Noise from the back had mostly died down, but the occasional howl still rang out.

 You buckled him in, and engaged the child lock on his side. You got into the driver's seat, but when you turned the key, he put his bound hands over the gear shift. " _PLEASE_ ," he said. His voice got brief strength, but quickly wavered. "You must turn back. Don't take us to Wind Rush. It is clearly our doom." He became faint during the last sentence, barely articulating it, and almost passed out, but his hands maintained a white-knuckled death grip on the gear shift. An almost inaudible slur of "I won't let you I won't let you I won't let you" passed through his lips with his breath.

 "Okay," you said softly. He looked up at you, sniffing, tears streaming. "I'll turn around. We'll go back to Night Vale."

 "Thank you," he whispered. You used your utility knife to cut the cord from his wrists and ankles. He relinquished the gear shift and said, "Let's get them out."

 "Look, I'm taking you all home like you asked, but opening the crates just isn't an option. They won't fit."

 "You can't leave them there for… for… how far are were from Night Vale?"

 "Two and a half days."

 "Masters," Cecil muttered. "You can't leave them in those boxes that long. I couldn't even bear a few minutes of consciousness in that thing."

 "They won't fit."

 "Then let them out here!"

 "In the middle of nowhere? There's nothing but sand a hundred miles four ways. You're closer to outer space than the nearest town. Buddy, they'll starve. There's 144 boxes in there. Well, 143, minus yours. You think they can all just hitch a ride home?"

 "I hate this," Cecil groaned, leaning against the window. "Okay. Let's just go. Get there as fast as you can."

 

**

 

Cecil watched for a long time out the window, at featureless desert that never changed. The moans from the back died to hopeless silence.  You had put on a country rock mix tape, and the agitated jostle of his knee kept time to each of the songs. 

 He had removed your coat from around his shoulders and placed it in his lap, for modesty. You pointed to where you kept a change of clothes, but once he had fished out a wood-inlaid shirt and pair of jeans, he found he still wasn't flexible enough to put them on. He piled them on himself like small blankets, and then at least there was not so much naked man-flesh distracting you every time you glanced to your right.

 You knew Cecil would be starving, so when your stomach started to contemplate food, you pulled over to The Diner. The Diner existed solely for truck drivers. It always materialized exactly four miles away from the moment the trucker decided he would stop for food soon. You helped him out of the cab and then stood watch while he put your pants and shirt on. You did not have an extra pair of shoes for him, but The Diner was not formal.

 You ordered a chicken fried steak with a side of foreboding, and Cecil jumped on the opportunity to order every wheat-based item on the menu. You remembered the insane pleasure you had when you realized that on the road Night Vale's wheat ban did not apply to you, but Cecil's enthusiasm exceeded even that. You had never seen anyone so delighted by toast.

 You finished first and fiddled with the two straw wrappers. You chatted with Cecil a bit, or rather, at him, since he had prioritized the use of his mouth solely for ingesting wheat. You were droning half-heartedly about your ex when he looked up and noticed what you were doing.

 "Oh, this?" you asked. You held up the little decorative chain you had folded the straw wrappers into. "You can have it. Here." You fastened it around his wrist. "It looks good on you," you half-joked, since garbage is hardly an attractive fashion accessory. Cecil stopped eating for a moment to admire it, however, and looked touched. 

 "You'll have to teach me how to do that at the next stop."

 "Okay." 

 Cecil returned to his mounds of wheat, careful not to drag his bracelet through the condiments.

 You put down money for the bill while he was sopping up mayonnaise with his floating pancakes, and remarked, "See, how could I have covered 144 people? I've got about enough for you, me, and a nice new hat."

 Cecil stopped chewing with his cheeks bulging out and looked briefly guilt-ridden, then returned to scarfing down his wheat and wheat by-products.

 

**

 

Cecil talked to you for the next leg of the journey.

 His topics were a bit depressing at first, as he dwelled on the condition of his peers in the back of the truck and relayed stories of suffering he had endured and heard about. After a little while, and a few upbeat songs on your mix tapes, he relaxed and switched to more pleasant topics. He and you chatted about your favorite stores in town, sports, and hilarious snafus when trying to perform bloodstone rituals. Both you and Cecil had spent the better part of the day thinking you had lost your hand in an interdimensional rift, only to find it on the end of your arm after an extensive search. Cecil and you both liked Big Rico's the best, though that could have been just because it was mandated by law. Cecil and you both had recently found a conditional acceptance for cats. A huge disagreement broke out over the proper way to put canned goods down for bedtime, but Cecil and you turned out to be quite compatible arguing companions, finding a sporting enjoyment from the disagreement. By the end of the dispute, you and he were slapping the dashboard and declaring to all the corners of the world that there was only one true thread count acceptable when tucking a can of carrots in. This was promptly followed by the heartiest fit of laughter either man had experienced in a long time.

 You taught Cecil how to make straw bracelets, after making him sign a blood pact that he would never do it any other way. He and you each got different interesting pasta dishes off the menu-- whole grain gnocchi and something called "mixed feelings ravioli"-- and ate off of each others' plates.

 Long after night fell and tears of mirth from revisiting the finer points of can tucking had been wiped away, your fatigue began to set in, and you pulled over to sleep. Cecil immediately protested, wanting to get his compatriots home and out of the crates as quickly as possible. You offered to let him drive, but when he got in the driver's seat and took a good look at the controls, he declared sadly that he couldn't drive stick.

 He reluctantly fell asleep beside you. The occasional moans from the back did not even register above gentle snoring. 

 

**

 

Breakfast at the diner, a mere four miles from where you had parked and then woken up ravenous, was eggs and dismay for you, and longing-drenched waffles for Cecil. He finagled a malted milk shake from the waitress, who, true to The Diner's policy, insisted milkshakes were not served at this time of day, and then pulled some sort of magic to produce one. You added an extra dollar to her tip.

 Cecil mumbled a "thank you" as you helped him into the cab. It was the first time he had said this the entire time.

 The driving this day was spent in comfortable silence, save for your mix tapes and Cecil's weather. Occasionally, the two of you mutually hummed and drummed along to a song you both knew. Bohemian Rhapsody and Wannabe were masterpieces of duet.

 Night fell, and you pulled into The Motel that materialized exactly four miles after you decided a good night's rest would be well worth the money. 

 "We'll be arriving in Night Vale tomorrow," you told him. "Come on. I need a real bed, and I bet you do, too."

 Cecil groaned in agreement. He body felt like it would never be able to get right again until after a good, long rest on a soft mattress. 

 You rented a small room with two beds, and courteously let your guest use the shower first. Cecil's moans were audible throughout the unit as the warm water loosened his muscles and he massaged his body back into shape. He came out with a white towel around his waist. 

 While you took your turn in the shower, Cecil scavenged some clean pajamas from the front office and spread out on his back on the bed. He was staring up at the ceiling when you came out.

 "I feel terrible being here when my fellow Night Valeans are crammed up in those boxes. Any of them would beg and kill to be able to lie like this right now."

 "I can put you in there if you feel that bad."

 Cecil groaned. "No." He turned his face away, as if ready to confess to some weakness, but simply repeated softly, "No." 

You put on your pajamas and sat on the edge of his bed. Behind the emotional pain of his inner torment, you could also see his jaw tense from the lingering physical pain of his body. After all that time in a crate followed by nothing but sitting in a truck seat that frankly always made you stiff and sore after a day's driving, he was clearly still in pain. 

"Here," you said. "Let me… let me help you. With your muscles." 

Cecil's confused noise was brief as you placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and squeezed firmly, kneading a little, to show what you meant. After a few deep squeezes, Cecil's head was lolling sideways and he was moaning. You removed your hand and said, "Take off your shirt." 

Cecil didn't take off his shirt so much as he complied in helping you slide it off his stiff limbs; he then lay beneath you, body still glistening from the shower, chest panting lightly. You took a moment to look at him: neither fat nor thin, just the right amount of padding softening his toned muscles. Strategically placed tattoos covered the inevitable scars a Night Valean collects, turning them into works of art. Unthinking, you traced your fingers along the purple-black ink. He looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, then turned away and flushed. This was awkward for both you and Cecil, with him lying half-naked and half-weakened, awaiting your physical care. You straddled him, hovering just over his lap, and began to knead the sides of his neck.

He groaned, and in that voice of his, it was such a deep, core-quivering sound. Your heart picked up a little to hear it. Cecil's head rolled as all the tension was erased. When you finally got the muscles connecting his shoulders to his neck to the consistency of soft butter, you asked, "Good?" Cecil groaned in agreement. You moved on to work at the orbit of his right shoulder. 

Both shoulders done, moving down his first upper arm, squeezing and working out all the twists and knots, hair and skin on both him and you still moist in that hot little room, you shifted your position, and brushed the tip of something hard. 

Cecil let out a high noise when your rear brushed the protrusion beneath his pajama pants. His gently closed eyes squeezed tight and he turned his head into the pillows, blushing furiously. You lowered your rear again, just to feel, just to confirm. Cecil was rock-hard. 

"Uhm," he said breathily. "Sorry, my body is just--" 

"Shh, it's okay," you said, stroking his cheek to coax his face out of the bed. He started to look at you, then buried his face again. You settled onto his lap, stiff length between your thighs. "Really. It's all right." 

Cecil throbbed between your legs while you abandoned his upper arm and began kneading his chest, swiftly progressing down towards his abdomen. "Just relax… Here… cross your arms behind your back, so this cluster here is stretched the right way." You pressed deeply into a pair of knots above his pelvis. With your help in positioning his still-stiff arms, he complied. 

"Here, it's okay, don't be embarrassed, shhh…" you said as you continued to knead. Slowly, he rolled his head and was looking straight up again. You took a break from his abdomen to place your hands on the sides of his face. "See? It's not awkward at all." You gave the length between your thighs an affectionate squeeze, then moved to sit on his stomach, backside just brushing his staff. "I'll take care of you. Keep your head straight. Relax."

Cecil let out a relieved little sigh, an awkward little smile, and closed his eyes. 

You picked up a pillow and pressed it firmly against his face.

Cecil immediately began to vocalize and thrash. You pressed your weight down hard on him, pinning his arms beneath his body, pressing the pillow over his face, hands on either side of his head holding it tight. Cecil's shouts were thickly muffled, and already his chest was struggling from lack of air. He began to work one of his arms free; your hands were already occupied with smothering him, and you could not defend yourself when he began to hit and scratch. Cecil was not strong enough to dislodge you from your superior position, however, and soon went limp.

You cautiously lifted the pillow from his face; his eyes were closed and mouth was slack. You lifted your weight off of him to lean forward and listen for breathing; this is the moment he sprang back to action. Cecil threw himself up and sideways with all his might, knocking you off balance. You lost your position over him, and he kicked you hard in the side, sending you tumbling onto the floor. 

Cecil crouched on the bed above you, ready to pounce, and demanded, "What in the name of all our masters are you DOING??"

"I'm putting you back in your crate."

"What." All the power left his voice; it was high and weak.

"We weren't really going back to Night Vale. I told you, I have to make this delivery! Tomorrow we're arriving in Wind Rush."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. You want awkward? Try writing in second and third person at the same time. I originally tried to make it all from "Cecil's perspective," that is, "you" was constantly a character observed by Cecil and no thoughts or insights were attributed to "you" that Cecil could not have known. The natural urge to put "your" perspective in charge, however, proved to be too great. I compromised the best I could with an omniscient perspective, which is why the weird "he and you" constructions sometimes appear… saying "you both" would have taken perspective away from Cecil. Let me know if any parts of this were so awkwardly constructed as to be distracting, and I'll consider revising it. Suggestions and constructive criticism welcome!


	2. Refugees

"What-- what-- but-- you said-- we were going back--"

 "I just wanted you to cooperate. Come on, man. I really need this job. If I had a good resume, do you think I'd be driving a truck? And I get to eat wheat and its by-products every work day! This is the best gig I've had."

 "What about us? Losing our jobs after being absent is part of our best possible outlook right now! And do you think your employers have kind plans for us? After cramming us into those crates for five days??"

 "Oh yeah. About that. It's… well, actually a three-day drive back to Night Vale. You woke up on the same day we set out. Anyway, I checked their water levels while you were in the shower. They only have enough for another half day. There doesn't seem to be a way to refill the reservoirs."

 "We have to let them out. Right here, right now."

 "Buddy, you haven't even convinced me not to put you back in the crate."

 "We're talking about 144 people!"

 "Yeah, well, what would YOU do, if you were in my position?"

 "I… well… Wwweeeelllll…" Cecil waffled. "I mean, IIII…" He huffed. "I wouldn't have opened that crate to begin with. Random moaning could be anything."

 "So you would have made the delivery."

"It… this isn't the same!"  

You stood up; Cecil got off the bed and stood too, circling slowly. His eyes darted about for a weapon.

"Come on, man. I bought you food! Can't you do me a favor and just get back in the crate?"

 Cecil stopped pacing. His arms fell to his sides and his head dropped. "All that time traveling together. The music. The conversations. The bracelet. Just now, in bed. Don't tell me that all meant nothing to you."

 "Uh…"

 Cecil looked up at you, eyes heated, voice deep. "I feel things for you. That is what makes this the most shocking to me. What we could be together, shattered. You are the most stunning person I have met. Your hair is as luscious as fresh-spun marmalade. Your arms and hands, so strong. Your nails, perfect, so clean. So smooth."

 You were taken back a bit by the praise. Looking at your fingernails, you found they were indeed well-maintained; you'd always had excellent grooming habits. How good of him to notice that.

 "And I know you see things in me. You must! I could feel it in the way you touched me. You love my voice, do you not? Sonorous and compelling. My body, not too fat, not too thin, not too tall or short. Just right. Perfect beneath you. You love my hair and scent and flesh."

 You could not argue with him. Everything was true. 

 "You love me," he said, words vibrating to your core. Inflections wrapping you, intoxicating you. Voice shaping your world. "You love me, and I love you. We want each other. We need each other. You cannot imagine losing me, or seeing me distressed."

 He approached you now, gently touched your face. 

 "My skin is smooth and it's what you want." 

You put your hand over his. You did want it. You did.

"You love me. You would do anything for me. I know it. Tell me it is so."

"It is so," you responded.

He closed more space. His chest and stomach brushed yours, and his free hand circled to caress the small of your back. His thumb stroked your cheek. "If you love me, then kiss me," his compelling voice intoned 

You closed your eyes and did so. Smooth lips, like he said. He felt just right. He moaned a little into your mouth, and everything within you lit on fire. 

Cecil and you kissed passionately and long in that little room, absorbed in each other, adoring, just a little wild. You grew needy against each other, bumping pelvises, grinding chests, raking hair. Cecil broke the kiss to lay a passionate trail up your neck, lap your jawline, and finally arrive at your ear to breathe with heat, "You love me. You want me. You will do anything to have me. You will do anything to see me pleased."

"Yes," you groaned.

"We have to save my townspeople," he groaned sonorously into your ear. "We have to get everyone back to Night Vale. It will kill me if we don't."

You clutched him desperately. "Of course we will. We'll find a way."

"Thank you," he breathed, and kissed you more fully than ever before, groaning gratitude into your mouth. His fingertips dropped and grazed your backside; it made you shudder. You pushed your hips into him. 

He broke away and said, "We have to hurry. There isn't much time."

"What? Oh… yeah… yes, of course," you said, shaking and disoriented from the sudden loss of contact. 

 "We'll free them, and then I'll show you how much I love you," he said, tilting your chin. "I'll give you everything you want, absolutely everything, my perfect, smooth-nailed lover."

You groaned in agreement. "What do we do?"

"First, you are going to help me take apart those crates."

 "Okay." 

Cecil and you got dressed, he still barefoot, and walked out to the truck. You unlocked it, and with his help began to unload. After only fifty boxes, your stomach was growling, but he assured you that this was far more important to you than eating.  

"Hey," you said, "You know, if we open some of these boxes, the people we free will be able to help us unload."

"You are brilliant," Cecil said. "We'll do it."

You and Cecil pried apart a few boxes, but the people who flopped out were hardly in a condition to help. Naked, starving, frightened, wrenched into twisted shapes, they were up to no other task than moaning and begging from the ground. Cecil and you shrugged at each other, and spent the rest of the night moving and opening crates.

Eventually everyone was out. Cecil had opened less boxes than you, spending most of his time talking to everyone, soothing them, convincing them to quiet down and cooperate. He wandered among them, occasionally shouting in recognition and hugging people he knew especially well. 

Despite Cecil's success at keeping his townspeople docile, they were still hungry, naked, and sore. He had gotten a bathrobe for one young girl, crying "Janice" and holding her tight. You recognized many people as well, being a Night Valean yourself, but had no close personal connections. A couple people you had become friendly with in shops exchanged nods with you.  

"I'm hungry," became the main complaint, once everyone's panic was quelled.

"Where's the nearest diner?" Cecil asked.

"Four miles away."

"There's no way they can walk that far."

"Even if they could, we don't have enough money to feed everyone. Nobody even has a stitch of clothing or single possession to sell." 

"I can make macramé out of everyone's hair," Janice offered from where she sat in Cecil's arms. 

"The Diner's cheapest filling meal is seven bucks," you said. "Call it ten with tax and tip. Kid, you need to make $1,440 worth of hair macramé and find someone to sell it to."

"And then we'd still have to get everyone there."

"Well, I bet I could do about 40 at a time sitting in the back of the truck."

"Good. That's good. That's reasonable. We can do it in three or four trips. As for payment, we could all just walk the check…"

 "And stiff that poor waitress? No. I have ethics."

 "Wait. Did you just drive for three days determined to deliver 144 of your fellow Night Valeans to an inhumane fate, and then say not tipping a waitress is unacceptable?"

"Yeah. So? Their base pay is only $2/hr, you know. Restaurants are allowed to pay tipped employees less than minimum wage. Look it up."

Cecil didn't push the issue. "Even if we did run out on the check, once we did that with the first batch of 40, the next groups would be refused service. Hard not to make the connection that a giant group of naked people is in the same set as the last giant group of naked people."

A man from the crowed piped up, introducing himself to you as Earl Harlan. "If we cannibalize just 3% of the population per day, all of the survivors will be able to eat appropriately sized meals, and the skin can be fashioned into basic loincloth and halter coverings for about seven to ten people per corpse, not counting the rain collectors we'll have to make. After about about three months, we'll have enough skins for every member of the remaining population to have shelter under a tent." ( citation: http://what-if.xkcd.com/105/ )

"I think we can make it back to civilization before then," Cecil said, voice flat with shock.

 "Okay. How far is the nearest civilization?"

 Cecil looked to you. "Wind Rush is about 280 miles," you provided.

 "But they may do horrible things to us upon our arrival," Cecil warned Earl. 

 "I sure as hell don't want to meet my bosses over there," you agreed.

 "Why don't we just call our friends and family in Night Vale to come pick us up?" Janice asked.

 "That's an idea…" Cecil muttered, chewing his lip. "The only problem would be keeping 144 people alive, sheltered, and fed for three days. And, you know, preferably clothed. Not that any variation on the human body is shameful."

 "I can definitely handle the feeding part," Earl said. He had been working aggressively at stretching and rubbing his joints, and now he stood and began silently pointing as he counted out the fattest Night Valeans.

 "Uhh, let's, uh, brainstorm a few more possibilities for feeding everyone before resorting to cannibalism," Cecil said. 

 "You say 'resort' like it's a bad thing," Janice said.

"That one's dead!" Earl said excitedly. He ran over to a man who had not risen from the remains of his crate and performed a first-aid check, then called, "I need a knife."

"Make one out of chipped shale," Janice shouted back.

"Hey! You're pretty sharp, kid!" Earl wandered off to scavenge shale.

"I'm a fucking girl scout,'" she muttered. "You boy scouts wouldn't know sharp if it impaled your carotid artery." To you and Cecil, she said, "You know, even though it's uncomfortable, everyone CAN survive another three days with no food. We can snuggle together for sufficient warmth, assuming Uncle Cecil can't convince the hotel manager to let us stay on credit. All we really need is water. Three days without water is shoving your thumb right up Death's bung hole. 

"If I can convince the manager to give us rooms, we'll have unlimited water."

"The Motel does have as many rooms as it needs to," you said.

"Wait," Cecil said slowly. "Did we just solve all our problems?"

"As long as you don't consider a scout master intent on cannibalizing three percent of the population to be a problem."

"Yeah, I think we did…" Cecil said. "Okay. You. Organize everyone to make calls using your cell phone. I'll go inside and talk to the manager. I'm sure we can work out an agreement." He sounded very confident. "And then… wow. I guess we all just shower, relax, and watch free cable TV for three days until our rides show up."

You got to work right away, shouting for a show of hands of people who had people who cared about them enough to drive three days. Enough raised their hands that, assuming each driver was willing to take extra passengers, everyone could easily get home. You began passing your phone around, instructing everyone to ask their loved ones also to bring extra clothing, bag lunches, and money.

Earl returned and quietly butchered the dead man. 

Cecil was successful, after a lengthy and very sonorous talk, in convincing the motel manager to accept payment in three days instead of up front. He began leading those who had completed their phone calls inside, needing to help nearly all of them walk. He paired them off, having discovered the immense healing power of a good massage, especially when it was not followed by a suffocation attempt. 

Two others, both women, proved dead once everyone began to move into the motel, and Earl took his sharpened rock to them as well. 

With a flash of inspiration, you called in an order to The Diner for as many dinner rolls as your cash would buy, and drove your truck the four miles to pick them up. You tipped the server who handed you your take out, of course, knowing that her tips from other tables would have suffered while she ran around assembling your order. Also, packaging up more than 300 rolls was certainly more effort than serving and cleaning a single table. You may indeed have been ready to deliver 144 people to a horrible fate at one point, but you would never steal service.

You passed out rolls to grateful citizens, and stayed up late chatting amiably. You quickly became a minor celebrity by giving everyone not only their first meal in three days, but their first wheat in months. 

By dawn, everyone had eaten two of your dinner rolls, returned to their rooms, showered, eaten their complimentary pillow mints and powdered coffee, and stretched out on soft, flat beds. 

You returned to your room to find Cecil had gotten there first and was sprawled on his bed, dozing. Every time he started to snore, he stopped himself, and then, a minute later, began to snore again. 

You watched him for several minutes, then sat down on the bed next to him and stroked his cheek. "Cecil," you said softly.

He opened his eyes. "Hmm? Oh. You're back."

You leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips.

"Oh… you…" he started, sighing against your kiss. "You, uh, are tired, aren't you? We're both tired. We need to sleep."

"I love you," you said. You placed a line of soft kisses along his neck. Your hand unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

"You're tired," he said firmly, "and so am I. We're going to sleep now."

What he said was true, and you sadly stopped with your fingers on his second button. "All right," you whispered, placing a final goodnight kiss on his temple. "I love you. Sleep well."

"Good night."

 

**

 

Late the next day, everyone woke and milled about in their borrowed pajamas, freshly showered and fairly well limbered up after enthusiastic compliance with Cecil's suggestion to massage each other. Earl distributed to each person a small hot breakfast he had cooked on a fire made from the furniture in his room. 

You sought Earl out after he served you your portion of steaming meat, wanting to give him a tip. Following the trail of meat scent and Night Valeans with increasingly uneaten portions, you finally heard his voice around a corner:

"You've missed me. Don't say that you haven't."

"Earl--" The other voice belonged to Cecil. "I have, and I want to, but--"

"Whatever the problem is, let it go. Is it that scientist you're pining after? He won't reciprocate. I'm right here in front of you, ready for you, right now. We've let this go on too long. Just kiss me."

"Mmm… Earl…"

You looked slowly around the corner, and saw Earl with his back against the wall, pulling Cecil against him, Cecil working his tongue and lips passionately into his mouth. Cecil was tense for a moment, resisting the hug that tried to pull him close, then put his hands on either side of Earl and eased his body into him with a moan.

You whipped back around the corner and pressed your back against the wall, heart thudding. You could still hear their moans and wet smacking, including Cecil's soft vow: "Gods, I love you."

"Let's go to your room," Earl purred.

"My roommate's still there. Let's go to yours."

"That sounds good. I don't have a roommate anymore."

"Earl, you can't kill-- ahh--" Cecil's protest broke off with an aroused little gasp and Earl chuckled.

"I didn't serve him for breakfast, if that's what you're thinking. He tripled up in a room with two other people he's good friends with." 

"Ahh," Cecil whimpered again, and glancing around the corner, you saw Earl's hand down his pants. Cecil was hardly an innocent victim, however; his hand was very aggressively up the front of Earl's shirt. "Your room it is, then."

 Earl's room was fortunately in a direction away from you. You returned, face burning, to your own room, and punched a few pillows and yelled.

 

**

 

It was shortly before dusk that cars began to arrive. 

They were far too early, and far too black, and came from the opposite direction of Night Vale.

They were, in fact, from Wind Rush. 

You saw them first, sulking outside so you would not have to face Cecil when he returned to your shared room. When the first pair of black-suited men stepped out, your stomach plunged and you ran inside. Your stomach then jerkily shifted to clenching when you imagined alerting Cecil to the development personally, so you told a random bystander to relay the message to him instead.

Cecil rushed out and deliberately schooled himself into a commanding posture. He greeted them in his sonorous voice, "Welcome… the The Motel."

"Yes, we're here about a missing delivery," one of the suited men said, consulting a clipboard. "We see the truck is here, and empty. Might you know the whereabouts of the missing cargo," the man asked, glancing up from his clipboard to hit Cecil in the eyes, " _Mr. Palmer_?"

 "Why, no," Cecil said innocently, as curious Night Valeans came out of the hotel and crowded around him. 

 More than a dozen people had gotten out from the various parked black cars, and began to fiddle distractedly with their knives and guns.

 "Oh?" the man said, glancing back down at his clipboard, and then back up at Cecil, then the people around him, focusing on one face at a time, pencil almost imperceptibly making check-marks. 

 "That's right. Nothing here. The crates must have made it to Wind Rush on their own."

 "I see," the man said, continuing to note and tally everyone who came outside to watch the spectacle.

 "Out of curiosity, stranger," Cecil said, "tell me what the cargo was intended for."

 "Collectibles," the man said, tapping the pen against his teeth. "Your broadcast gets out to fourteen different realities, rotating on a daily basis. They've become quite rabid about the show. Actual citizens from Night Vale will fetch a very high price, once you've been properly prepared, of course."

 "'Prepared?'"

 "Processed into the appropriate form. Shrunk and paralyzed into living dolls, or stretched over a sequentially numbered lamp shade, or stitched to a folding frame, or flattened into a twitching wall poster, or caged with a nice sex slave outfit on. Depends on the conventions of the reality each of you is sold to." 

 "You will not find what you are looking for here," Cecil intoned deeply. "Move on."

"There are too many of us for you to manipulate, Voice," one of the men said.

 "I have never been limited by my audience's size," Cecil growled, threat clear in his tone. "And this is a story about--"

"We're not from Night Vale. Your Voice takes time to imprint on a person. You can't just take control of us cold."

"You're right," Cecil said. "I cannot control you the way I can control my fellow Night Valeans." He raised his Voice and intoned to the hundred-strong people gathered around him, "Guys? A little help here?"

The Night Valeans shifted to fight. The Wind Rushers raised their guns.

"You don't want to damage your cargo," Cecil said.

"We also don't want to be torn limb for limb. This cargo has already been reported lost. You do not want to die. 

"If the cargo is already lost, just let us go."

"Not when our best case scenario is recovering nearly all of our cargo and our worst case scenario is to lose it anyway. And frankly, even after a massacre, we'll still wind up with a few salvageable survivors. One of the realities doesn't even need you alive, though they admittedly are offering the lowest price. Ah." He turned his head. "It's over."

One woman, or perhaps a man, or perhaps both at once, who had been sitting in the back of a black car now got out. They had, instead of a face, a circle of blinking eyes. They closed these eyes and tilted their head back.

Cecil, you, and everyone else from Night Vale suddenly thought it was a wonderful idea to get into the crates. The ambiguously gendered person with the ring of eyes pointed to a spot on the ground, and everyone lined up neatly in front of it, beginning with Cecil.

 And then, from the hotel, a single girl barreled out in a hand-made wheelchair, wearing a tin foil hat. "I'll never be without one again," she shouted, and, though not the most compelling battle cry, it was nonetheless effective in startling all the people from Wind Rush. They did not know what to do for a moment, and in that time, she drew a crossbow made from bedsprings and shot the telepath directly in the center of their ring of eyes. 

 The 140 people from Night Vale instantly broke out of their trance, wavering only slightly before resuming their grasp on the world. Janice, having lost no momentum at all after shooting the telepath, gave her wheel a mighty shove and reloaded her crossbow, charging even faster at the suited intruders while bellowing death to them all.

 Every Wind Rusher opened fire on her at once. She was dead before her chair stopped rolling.

 Cecil howled and leapt at the man closest to him. The rest of Night Vale followed, even you, though you politely allowed others to go first. 

 Screaming in aggression and pain and the final realization of mortality, they quickly overwhelmed the wildly shooting people from Wind Rush, scrambling over bodies to reach their targets even as their fellows thrashed and bled out beneath their feet. In less than two minutes, it was over, gunfire totally transmuted to the sound of a howling mob tearing apart dead flesh. Thirty Night Vale lives had been lost. 

 You joined in making sure the twitching body parts were thoroughly dead, then backed off, panting, with the loosening edge of the crowd. Your eyes traveled over the churning bloody mass, trying to find the man you loved.

 Cecil finally emerged to join the calm edge. He had sustained a bullet wound clean through his shoulder and a second one grazing his arm. Claw marks were pink and red down his face, neck, and hands. A femur was clutched, forgotten, in his right hand.

 "Baby," Cecil breathed when he saw you. He touched your face and leaned in for a kiss. You jerked away.

 "I saw you with Earl," you said.

 "Oh," Cecil muttered. He looked away, then back. "I can make it up to you. I can explain. I promise. Just come with me, we'll talk."

 You hugged yourself, hurt, but still followed him. You still loved him, after all. He took you far out into the desert, holding you by the hand and talking sonorously to you until you were both far away from the motel and alone. He talked about you, mostly. He turned out to know quite a lot.

 As all lights of the motel disappeared behind you and the night sky opened up ahead, Cecil urged you to walk in front of him. The topic shifted to the planet lit by no sun.

 "A behemoth," Cecil said it was. "Large and groaning as it turns under its great weight. You see it now, closer than ever. It fills your vision as it looms above, all thick black forests and jagged cliffs, and a dark ocean shore on which hooded figures stand." Your head fell back. "Your shoulders are slack and relaxed."

 You felt the blade of a knife press your throat. The planet lit by no sun was so close now…

 "… you can almost touch it."

 You reached out--

 Cecil made a quick motion, and you crumpled to the ground. He looked at the body that used to be you while he slowly wiped the blade. He gazed briefly up, then turned and walked back to the motel. 

 "Earl," he said, finding the scout master constructing fire sticks from bedsprings and chair legs. "Go south in the desert; there's meat to add to tonight's feast."

 Earl nodded and moved to go. 

"Wait," Cecil said. 

"Yes, love?" Earl purred, mind shifting tracks to melt his body against Cecil's.

 Cecil sighed. Earl reached for Cecil's lips with his, but Cecil dropped his head. "Nothing. Not tonight. Just go."

 "See you, sweetie," Earl grinned, giving him a saucy wave as he loped off.

 "Traitor," Cecil muttered under his breath. His fingers gently worried the straw-wrapper bracelet you gave him. 

 

**

 

The first car arrived early in the afternoon, less than two days after the initiation of the phone calls. He had driven nonstop day and night with no sleep, breaking the speed limit to arrive not a second later than physically possible.

 Cecil was outside when the tan Corolla pulled up.

 "Where is she??" Steve Carlsberg cried, scrambling out of the car almost before shifting it into Park. "Where's my little girl?"

 "Steve Carlsberg," Cecil said. His voice was dry and empty of all hate. 

 "I have juice boxes, like 200 juice boxes, she said there were a lot of people. I pretty much emptied out the grocery store before I left. I'm sorry, I didn't take time to round up a lot of clothes. I, I brought some peanut butter. And rice chex and cocoa powder and confectioner's sugar. It's her favorite, I didn't take the time to make it before I left, but after I've seen her again we can sit down and make them together…"

 Steve became increasingly panicked as he continued to talk and Cecil continued to be silent with a stare that got more and more distressed.

 "I have her favorite headband!" he was shouting, after several minutes. He clutched Cecil's shirt. "I brought her mp3 player! She loves her songs!!" He shook him and screamed, "I got here as fast as I could! Cecil! Her daddy is here! Tell her everything is okay!!!"

 A crowed had gathered, drawn from their rooms by the sound of desperate hysteria. Cecil remained silent and staring, face utterly white, expression all Steve Carlsberg needed to finally collapse on the ground, sobbing.

 Cecil stumbled away from Steve, shoved through the crowd, and pushed away Earl when he tried to speak to him. He stumbled down the hallways, hitting doorways and walls, but despite his stupor found himself exiting the opposite side of the motel. He fell to his knees outside, and retched.

 Shoulders finally ceasing their convulsions after several minutes of dry heaves, Cecil looked up. He could hear a deep humming, and see, in the distance, growing closer now, a great dark planet, lit by no sun.

 He pushed himself to his feet, and followed it out into the desert. It grew to greet him, coming closer, so close he could see the jagged mountain peaks and thick pine forests, and, as it turned, the great black ocean against a black beach on which hooded figures stood. So close, that beneath one of the hoods he could make out the face of you. So close, he might be able to touch you. He reached out--

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not my best fic, but please let me know if you liked it! I spent a long time on it. There are parts I'd like to improve, so any and all constructive criticism is welcome.
> 
>  
> 
> BTW, did anyone else love the progression of tags: Abduction, Human Trafficking, Road Trip!!!!


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